


Every beginning is a new end

by EllaStorm



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean Dies Repeatedly, Heavy Angst, M/M, Mystery Spot, Pain and Tears
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-23
Updated: 2014-07-23
Packaged: 2018-02-10 03:12:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2008761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllaStorm/pseuds/EllaStorm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam’s attempts to save Dean fail every day, however hard he tries, so he decides on just spending the time they have together instead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Every beginning is a new end

On day 36 Dean died from blood poisoning after he had cut himself on a rusty metal pipe.

 

 

On day 58 Dean died from smoke in his lungs when Sam set fire to the Mystery Spot – again.

 

 

On day 71 Sam started throwing pieces of furniture across the room, shouting his anger out into the world, Dean’s startled eyes blinking at him in utter confusion. Dean died when the policeman, who had been called by the neighbours, shot him in the head.

 

 

On day 72 the motel room was nice and clean again, and Sam lost it. Ten hours later Dean died; a glass shard piercing his guts that was sent flying when Sam blew up the entire motel.

 

 

On day 73 Sam didn’t go on another rampage. He couldn’t save Dean – he could only destroy more things and kill more people in the process of losing him. Which was, from a rational point of view, incredibly stupid. And although Sam had left “rational” far behind about fifty days ago, he found that there were better things to do than going Hulk every day for the rest of all eternity. If he couldn’t find a way to stop Dean from dying, he would take the borrowed time they had and make something good out of it. Do something he wouldn’t normally do. Take a break. Stop hunting for a while. Just be with his brother.

This chain of thought was the reason he ended up lying on a picnic blanket next to Dean in the late afternoon sun, talking to him about everything and nothing, and trying not to wait for the inevitable to happen.

“We should do this more often”, Dean sighed, flopping back onto the blanket, legs sprawled wide, eyes closed. The shadows of the trees painted vivid patterns all over his face, and Sam’s heart gave a sharp, painful little tug at the view. Dean looked so alive right now; beautifully, amazingly alive – and Sam never wanted the world to end as much as in that very moment. If he could just sit here and watch his brother breathe and smile like this while everything else went up in flames, he would die the happiest man on earth.

“Quit staring at me, dude. It’s creepy”, Dean mumbled.

“I’m not staring.”

“Yes, you are.”

“How would you know, with your eyes closed?”

Dean opened his eyes at that, and of course Sam was staring, his face suddenly close to Dean’s, noses nearly touching. Sam took a second of silent consideration, holding his breath and looking down onto his brother, before he decided that it really, really didn’t matter now, and that mental health could fuck off, thank you very much, because this was it, Dean’s lips only inches away, eyes bright, breath slightly hitching, and Sam had wanted this for so long and never let himself have it, because he had been scared out of his mind about it. Losing Dean over and over again in the most horrible ways imaginable had altered his perspective. “Scared” couldn’t hold him back any more. “Scared” was just a word.

Sam leaned down and kissed Dean, soft and easy, and when he pulled back, his brother’s oh-so-green eyes were wider than he had ever seen them.

“Wha…where did that come from?”,

Sam shrugged. “Has always been there, I guess.”

“Why’d you never tell?” Dean sounded pissed off now, which was probably the adequate reaction to getting kissed by your brother completely out of the blue with no warning whatsoever; but that was not actually the thing Dean was pissed off about; Sam couldn’t help noticing. Dean was pissed off about Sam never telling him.

Sam blinked. “How do you say something like that?”

His brother went from annoyed to absolutely furious in a matter of split seconds. “You could’ve tried! All that time, Sam, and I – I thought I was sick in the head! Looking at you that way ever since you were old enough for… Jesus!” Dean buried his palms in his eyes, and Sam could only blink at him, while the implications of that outburst slowly dripped into his consciousness.

He needed a while, before he was able to reply, quietly. “Turns out I am sick in the head, too.”

The next few moments passed in a blur of clashing limbs, and when he came back to himself, Sam found Dean on top of him, kissing him hard enough to bruise, tongue sliding hot and slick into his mouth, hands trailing over his torso, slipping under layers and layers of clothing until they found bare skin to hold onto, and Sam responded, eagerly, mirroring his brother’s movements, all tongue and wandering hands.

Only minutes later, somebody started yelling, and Dean looked up in surprise, before a rock thrown at him by a bible-quote-screaming, raging homophobic fuckwit smashed his head in. He took his last breath in Sam’s arms, mouth slack against his skin; and Sam teared up for the first time in sixty-eight days, stroking his brother’s hair and whispering comfort to unhearing ears.

He dedicated the following half an hour to transforming the stone-throwing fanatic into a bloodied pulp with his bare fists.

 

 

On day 74 Sam didn’t waste any time. As soon as he got out of bed, he shoved Dean against the next wall, pressing his mouth hot and wet against Dean’s, and even though his brother’s reaction involved punching him in the face (twice) they ended up on the floor, completely caught up in each other, heated skin on heated skin, tongues and hands mapping out the smooth hardness of muscles and bones. It was rough, desperate and not at all the way it should have been, but Sam didn’t care. He had Dean, as close to him as possible, however finite in that never-ending, vicious circle of death and reset and death and reset.

Dean died when they went out for pie from the supermarket and the shelf with the canned soups caved in on itself and buried him.

 

 

On days 75 to 100 Sam did little more than getting as much of Dean as possible, clinging to him, burning every fleeting impression of him into his brain; the long stretch of his naked limbs on the white sheets of the far-too-narrow queen-size-bed, the taste of sweat in the hollow of his throat, the sound of his moans against Sam’s lips, the tug of his fingers in Sam’s hair, the exact colour of his eyes in the dim light of the evening sun pouring through the windows into the room.

Dean still died every day, and Sam still found a piece of him broken every morning, but his brother’s kisses, however fucked up that was, kept him sane.

 

 

 

 

 

Sam doesn’t think about the one hundred and eighty four days after day 100. He doesn’t think about losing so many memories of Dean that he had believed to be stored safely inside his head. He doesn’t think about how very gladly he would have killed every single person on the planet, had it given him the faintest chance to bring his brother back.

Each time his thoughts start scrambling around the sealed boxes in his mind, containing the six months that never happened, he stops himself from pondering and looks at Dean instead. Dean, who is back with him now, sleeping soundly next to him, who still tastes and feels exactly like he should. Who Sam loves more than – well, there isn’t really a fitting comparison.

“We’ve still got time”, Sam murmurs. “We’ll figure it out. You’re not gonna go to hell.” Dean grumbles in his sleep, and Sam pulls him closer, with no intention of letting go any time soon.


End file.
